The Life and Times of One Scorpius Malfoy
by MultipleObsessions
Summary: If one could voice all his thoughts, Scorpius Malfoy would have a lot to say to Rose Weasley. Things like, "thanks for always being there" or "you understand me better than anyone". The life and times of one Scorpius Malfoy, from a beginning to an end.


I apologize for any grammatical or spelling errors in this document. Standard disclaimers.

* * *

><p>He's five-years-old and doesn't understand anything. When he walks outside, he sees other witches and wizards his age. He waves at them, but they never wave back. They stare at him, glare at him, and he sees them mouth the words, <em>Slytherin traitor. <em>Other times, it's different. He hears grown-up witches and wizards murmur to themselves, and sometimes he thinks he can hear them say something along the lines of, _Those snobby blond good-for-nothings. So they've decided upon another ridiculous name, have they?_

But what happens most is when he sees the elderly hunched over as they walk past, heads bent together, whispering what he thinks is, _that's Malfoy's son, that is. The son of the traitor told to kill Dumbledore..._

He's five-years-old and is as confused as any other five-year-old wizard boy can be.

* * *

><p>He's seven-years-old and understands it all. His father pulls him into his study, the one that he's only allowed to go into when he's told, and makes him sit in the green chair with the silver snake wrapped around the four legs. His father then, sitting while his mother stands behind him, opens his mouth and tells a story. The boy doesn't get it at first; there are unfamiliar names and spells that he hasn't yet heard of, stories of a place called <em>Hogwarts,<em> and tales of three people called _The_ _Golden Trio_.

But soon, gradually, because this boy is no idiot, he begins to fit it all in. Why the other witches and wizards his age don't wave back; why the grown-ups don't smile; why, everywhere he goes, he is shunned and looked down upon, and is called a _son of a traitor_ behind his back.

He's seven-years-old and understands that he will never have any real friends.

* * *

><p>He's eleven-years-old and as nervous as bloody hell. Platform 9 34 stands dreary and threatening above him, and he wants nothing more than to just go home and ignore the scowls that he has grown so used to by now. But he can't do that; he has to be educated, of course. So he stands awkwardly in front of his mother and father, whom, he thinks, everyone else is staring at as well.

He looks out over the platform, inspecting every face and giving a smile, but receiving only a scowl in return. He shrugs. He's gotten used to it. His mother gives him reassuring words, words that go in one ear and out the other. He nods curtly in order to make her think that he actually gives a damn about what she's saying. She continues to rant until, out of the blue, his father takes him gently by the shoulders and tries to turn him, usher him away. He wants to give his father a questioning look, but he's old enough to know that his father doesn't show emotion on his face. Not anymore, anyway.

So, instead, he traces his father's line of vision. His eyes land on two men and two women. He thinks that one of the women is, in a gorgeous sort of way, what American boys would call "hot", with the red flames on her head (which stood for her hair) cascading like a waterfall down her back. Her face is an array of orange freckles, which seem to dance whenever she smiled. He imagines that she must have been even more so pretty when she was younger.

The other woman, he supposes, was gentler-looking and more natural than the first. Unlike the former, her hair was a beautiful mess of dark brown curls, pulled up in a messy knot, which resided high on her head. He thinks that, if perhaps her teeth weren't so perfect and white, and if perhaps she wasn't dressed so casually, this woman could pass for a certain type of workaholic.

He notices that each woman is with a man. The red-headed male is staring back at the boy's father, nudging the man besides him gently, and points. He looks a lot like the flame-headed woman, the boy thinks, and he sees the similarities; a head of fire, and the spray of freckles across his nose and cheeks, like God had decided to let orange paint instead of water rain down his face. He decides that the flame-headed ones had to be blood-related in some way, siblings probably, cousins being the furthest relationship they could have (seeing that the flame-man was poking the flame-woman every so often). _He's got to be married to the white-toothed woman with the brown hair_, thinks the boy, as he sees that they are holding each other close.

The flame-headed woman, he realizes, must have some sort of a romantic relationship with the black-haired man. The man stands humbly, yet with an air of importance to him; the boy, of course, is not stupid, and notices that the man tries to downplay his looks with casual clothes. But every now and then, the boy notices that the black-haired man moves his hair over his forehead, as if to cover a mark that may be etched there. People are murmuring as they walk past the man, as secretively as they murmur when they pass the boy; _but there is something different_, the boy thinks, _something that they do to _him_ that they don't do to _me_. _The onlookers give the flame-headed man, and white-toothed woman, and the black-haired man looks of admiration, praise, and love.

The boy understands. It hits him like a bludger.

This, this right here, is _The Golden Trio._

He's eleven-years-old and knows he will never be loved; not like The Gold Trio is, anyway.

* * *

><p>He's twelve-years-old and his first year at Hogwarts is almost over. He's just finished his Herbology essay (<em>Herbology<em>, which he thinks, _is the most _pointless_ class of them all_), and he walks his way to the Great Hall for dinner. He tries to enter discreetly, sneaking like a ferret to the other side of the Hall; but, as always, his attempts are in vain. He swears that every pair of eyes turn to him, survey him, and sneer. Especially Seth Teivel. He bullies the boy the most. The boy takes it as a sign that everything is all right (because if it wasn't, some other student would be screaming in his face about how filthy he was).

He makes his way over to his dining table, and takes a seat at the very end of the bench. Seth turns to him (again, he might add), and then he turns to someone else. And he doesn't have to lift his head to know who the person is (he can already tell), because he can hear the excited murmuring and the declarations of praise.

Rose Weasley.

And she's standing right behind him. She stands there for a while, until someone calls out her last name (her infinite and seemingly never-ending amount of cousins immediately turn their heads). Seth yells, what the boy can only imagine to be, _Get away from that slimy git, Weasley! He's a traitorous little git, he is. _

_Ah. There._ He tells himself to not bother being disappointed. _It's not as if I wasn't expecting this, _he thinks. He stands to get out of her way (because, in this generation, being a Weasley is as good as being a king, and being a Malfoy is as good as being a beggar), and takes his plate to sit somewhere alone by himself, when he feels a firm hand coming down on his shoulder.

She speaks. And what she says... well, what she says starts an unacknowledged, but beautiful relationship that was to last for years to come.

"I don't know what Scorpius has done to have your knickers in a twist but," she glares hard at the people who had been trashing him since the beginning of the year, "what the older Malfoys have done is in _no way _related to Scorpius.

"Just because he was born into a family that had committed harsh deeds, it does not mean he's like the rest of them_." _The boy turns to his savior, and, for one insanely mental moment, considers _smiling_ at her. The other people at his table stare at their idol of affection for one flabbergasted minute, then turn away when an uncomfortable moment passes.

Rose Weasley, the girl who is loved by all, takes a seat further down the table.

He's twelve-years-old and doesn't understand how he can be a courageous Gryffindor when he's such a bloody coward.

* * *

><p>He's thirteen-years-old, a Malfoy, and has started a mutual and accepting relationship with a Weasley.<p>

He sits next to her in numerous classes, and when he is picked on, she immediately springs to his defense. And he appreciates her for doing so, but it's not as if they're friends. _She just pities me. _But every time her hand brushes his, he glances sideways, and he swears that he catches her staring at him. And it sends his heart into overdrive. _But that's just wishful thinking. She would never stare at _me... _she has so many others to choose from. _He furtively looks at the other boys in his class who've also got their eyes on her. There are too many to count.

_She's a lot like her white-toothed mother, _the boy thinks. _Natural but pretty, smart but stubborn, hard-working but a joy to be with._

_But, _the boy adds to his mental list, _she's a lot like her flame-headed father. Wanting attention, but not wanting to drown in it, obedient but fiery, relaxed but organized._

She knows him better than anyone else. Sometimes, he thinks she can read his mind. And he enjoys her company, although its limited to class time, and occasional bump-ins at the library.

After the last day of his second year at Hogwarts, and after the boy safely gets off the train, his father gives him a long and serious talk. Father tells son to get over the past, and to let his true personality come out.

The boy dryly tells father that he has no personality, and that (he quotes Seth Teivel) he is a good-for-nothing twat who deserves no spot at Hogwarts.

His father waits until people have left Platform Nine and Three-Quarters to slap him. The older Malfoy tells the younger one that this is not true, and then he does something unexpected; he hugs him.

They embrace for a long moment, before his father looks into the boy's gray eyes and says to never, ever, believe what others say about him, and to be himself.

The boy nods and asks his father what he was like in his teenage years. His father laughs then (a laugh the boy hasn't heard for thirteen years), and asks his son if he really wants to know.

Father tells son that he'll have to ask his mother. But the boy is determined, because he wants to make sure that he can be the best Malfoy that ever lived.

He's thirteen-years-old and has decided to turn his life around.

* * *

><p>He's fourteen-years-old, fourth year has only just begun, and he swears that every girl on the Quidditch Field is staring at him in awe, which is something that he knows he'll never get used to. His shirt is off, and all that hard work in the gymnasium has really paid off.<p>

But he doesn't like that they're shamelessly staring at his torso, or making obscene gestures at his body, or acting as if they hadn't been bullying him for the past three years as they bat their eyelashes at him. He rolls his eyes, and watches, annoyed, as the frivolous minded girls swoon.

He does suppose, however, that he's changed a lot over the past year; he's finally grown into his body. His silly mushroom-bowl cut has turned into something... _sexier, _he supposes; he's gotten a lot more confident, too, as he actually talks to other people on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team. Seth Teivel has actually become his friend as well. _Funny, _he thinks, _how appearances can change people's views about you. _

_Funny, _he thinks, _how appearances can totally wipe out any gossip that has lasted for three years._

And then, _she _comes along. Her figure, with its distinct mess of wild, fiery hair, prances into view. He smiles; this year, they've actually become best of friends. They speak to each other every day, both inside and outside of class, they sit next to each other at the Gryffindor table; and what's truly amazing, in his opinion, is that nobody has said a single bad word about it.

She nods at him, and smiles a smile that sends his whole body into a state of mystified pleasure and shock. _But that's only because we're friends._

"We'll win," she tells him, "we'll win because we have _you, _and you're the best bloody seeker in this school." He can almost feel his heart pushing out of his chest. _Because we're friends. _She starts to walk away, and he starts to think, _please stay with me, _and, as if reading his mind, she turns around. "I'd wish you luck," she says, "but you won't be needing any."

She hugs him, and the perverted part of his fourteen-year-old mind thinks, _only one layer of clothing between us. _She looks at him for a long steady moment, smiles, and disappears into the crowd again. The other girls glare daggers at Rose's back as she walks away.

He puts on a shirt, mounts his broom, and flies into the open air of the first game of the year, poised, and ready, to kick some Slytherin arse.

Gryffindor wins the first game. And Scorpius Malfoy happens to be the Seeker to catch the golden snitch, along with one-hundred-fifty points, and he was being worshipped like a god. Everywhere he looks, he sees looks of admiration and love, looks that he's wanted his whole life.

Suddenly, there is Firewhiskey involved, along with a Butterbeer or two and some strange pink liquid that he thinks smells a bit funny. But who cares? Everyone loves him.

Especially one sick-minded fifth-year girl, who pulls him into a corner and begins to snog him senseless. She pulls him out of the common room, and suddenly everything's spinning, and he doesn't know what the bloody hell is going on, and her hands are everywhere, and he's beginning to lose control of his sanity.

_So this is what it's like to be drunk, heh? _He lets his body take over, and feels her up shamelessly as she keeps snogging him. They continue like this for a while; the boy and the girl continue their passionate embrace, until one thought enters the boy's mind: _This does not feel right. _

He pays no attention, though, and continues to kiss the girl. The thought was stronger this time: _This does not feel right. _But he pays no heed to his mind until he makes sense of it all.

_This does not feel right! _He pushes the other girl back roughly (she only smiles seductively before disappearing to Merlin-knows-where), and he is about to re-enter the Gryffindor Common Room, when he notices a pair of brown eyes and a head of fiery red hair, standing feebly in front of him. He doesn't have to look twice to see that she's crying.

Rose Weasley.

He tries to reach for her, to get a hold of her hand, but his efforts are in vain. But like everything else that has been his, she slips away. And he cannot lose another thing that is so precious. He loses control.

"Rose! No!" His voice is loud and strong; her voice is quiet and soft.

"Why are you screaming-"

"That meant nothing! I've just had a Firewhisky or two... you can't get mad at me for being with her, she was the one who pulled me out!"

"I don't know-"

"You don't understand! All of that, you don't have to be upset by it, it will never happen again-"

"SCORPIUS!" She explodes, "STOP!"

_Oh no, _he thinks. _Oh no. _He stares at his shoes. _I'm going to be sick._

And he spills the alcoholic contents of his stomach onto the floor. He's more disappointed in himself than anything else. He feels her hand; it's the same hand that touched his shoulder in first year, the same hand that brushed against his in second year, the same hand that tousled his hair in third year, and now it's the same hand that's pulling him up and towards the Infirmary.

"Let's get you cleaned up, Scorp."

The walk to the Hospital Wing was long, awkward, and painful, at least for the boy. Several times along the way, he makes a decent effort to apologize again (_I don't know why, she isn't even interested in me_). She smiles at him (it's not the smile he's used to), and she says that she really doesn't care. And he can't tell whether she's lying or not. _Which might as well be sending me to bloody hell._

Rose drops him off (Old Madame Pomfrey glares unapprovingly as she smells the strong scent of alcohol). She cleans him up, and gives him a glass of water and some breath mints to get the smell of alcohol and barf out of his mouth. While Rose's back is turned, he counts the orange freckles on her neck. He tries to apologize again.

"I'm so sorry-"

"There's no reason to apologize."

"Yes, there is-"

"No, there isn't." Her tone cuts the conversation and tells him it's over. The nerves in his stomach are winding around themselves, tying themselves so tightly together that he convinces himself that they'll never untangle. She stares at him for a long moment, and kisses him.

On the cheek?

On the lips?

But no such luck.

On the forehead.

She tells him to stop apologizing, and that, truly, she doesn't care.

And that does it.

It's like a sharp butcher knife cuts him straight down the middle.

_She doesn't care._

_She might as well be cutting me into a thousand pieces._

_She might as well be telling me that she doesn't love me._

He pushes her off, and stares at her for a long while. Her brown eyes ask a question. He answers back with a cruel statement.

"Don't ever, _ever_,talk to me again."

He's fourteen-years-old, dying inside, and deciding to never speak to Rose Weasley ever again.

He's fifteen-years-old and doesn't feel anything. No love, no need, no want. But he knows things. He knows that, right now, he's snogging some poor girl (who actually thinks that he _likes _her) in the Room of Requirement, and he couldn't care less about anything else.

* * *

><p>He's been going around like this for about a year and a half now, ever since he decided to stop talking to Rose. Since then, he snags any of the gaggling girls who'd made suggestive gestures at him and tells them that he wants them. But he imagines Rose's face on theirs. <em>Like that will help.<em>

He lets the girl go (she giggles and tells him he's the best snogger at Hogwarts), and his back clutches at the wall. Everything he does, he does to get rid of the pain. The pain of losing the one person who is actually worth something to him.

He doesn't talk to Rose Weasley anymore. In fact, he never sees her. _Well, I do. We just... avoid each other. _

In Transfiguration, when she sneaks a look at him, he turns around and pretends that she's not there. In Defense Against the Dark Arts, when she passes by him and her robes brush against his, he moves away and talks to another Gryffindor. In Potions, whenever he smells her familiar scent (_chocolate, library books, and, of course, rose_), he ducks his head to make sure that she doesn't see him.

But then, there's also that evil part of him. It's not like he's perfect. In those times outside of class when he sees her, he makes sure that he has someone else with him; whether it be another classmate (preferably Slytherin, it makes her look away slower) or with a clingy girl (the latter works better). He makes sure that the girl clings as tightly to him as possible, and he makes sure he hangs onto her tightly as well.

That evil part of him rejoices in seeing the hurt cross Rose's face. That evil part of him absolutely adoresit when Rose sees him and his new girl snogging each other's faces off. That evil part of him wants nothing more than to make Rose suffer.

The next day is no different than any other day. He grabs a particularly full-bodied girl (_hem hem_) and whispers seductive words into her ear. She grows a rather unattractive shade of red (_the only person who blushes beautifully is Rose Weasley, _he thinks) and the girl presses herself up against his chest, and he holds her there. He takes a deep breath, and with the girl, he saunters into the nearest hallway.

They walk together for a while, and everyone moves to get out of their way. Most people glare on enviously. His best friend Seth Teivel raises his eyebrows in question. He turns, and sure enough, _she _is standing there. With that same look of hurt, anger, sadness, and betrayal on her face.

He merely smirks, and smiles naughtily as the girl on his arm grabs his arse. He leans down and snogs the girl, in a way that should have been illegal to do in public. He snogs her. The girl whose name he does not even know. In front of _everyone. _Including Rose. He turns just in time to see Rose running out of the hall; the boy on the outside smiles smugly.

He's fifteen-years-old and the boy on the inside is breaking with every step she takes away from him.

* * *

><p>He's sixteen-years-old and he feels as if his life has become one huge joke.<p>

His usual hallway routine has become boring. He realized, by the end of fifth year, that no girl's body would feel like a perfect piece against his. _No one, _he thinks, _but Rose Weasley_. He gave up the foolish act long ago. He isn't particularly handsome, but the girls seem to love the silent, angsty type. _Except for Rose._

But he realizes something. He didn't see Rose in the Great Hall at the mealtimes. He didn't see her in the Common Room studying for Merlin-knows-what or writing an essay for Merlin-knows-who. In fact, he hasn't seen her anywhere at anytime since... well. Only one thought enters his head: _I've broken her. _He allows the thought to sink in. _I've finally broken her. _Full realization hits him. _Oh Merlin. What have I done? _

He breaks away from the rest of the crowd, and runs to the one place that he knows she would be. The library.

He cannot believe himself. _I got over her long ago, _he tells himself, but he knows, deep down, that that is a lie. _Why am I running to her? Why is it _always_ her_?

He reaches the library, and sprints to the place he knows she'll be: a separate corner hidden by shelves and shelves of books, a place where they would meet after class in third year. _It was our place back then_, he thinks.

He reaches the corner, and is about to call out her name, when he hears two voices; one is painfully recognizable, while the other is familiar.

"Are you really upset by all this, Weasley?" The masculine voice asks. _It's a bloke, _he thinks, _a bloke that's talking to her. _He hears hervoice. Rose.

"No, no. Not upset, I _was _expecting it..." the sadness in her voice cracks his heart.

The other voice snorts indignantly. "Oh, really, Weasley? Were you?"

"Yes, of course I was."

The voice snorts again. "I don't think so. You loved him, didn't you?" The boy's head snaps up at this. _Who did Rose love? Who, who?_

"It doesn't matter now. I'd never noticed until fourth year, when I was too late. You know, the day of the first Quidditch match of the season? It was then." Rose's voice holds such notes of grief and regret, that he wants to run out and hug her, embrace her, kiss her, tell her that he loves her. But he cannot, not after all that he'd done to her. The masculine voice rings out again.

"You fell in love with Malfoy _then_?"

Suddenly, the whole world is spinning, and the boy can't hear anything, he can't see, he can't breathe... it's like he is plunged into the deepest depths of the ocean. _She loved me. _

"Well, I think I'd always fancied him. In first year, he was just so lonely that I just pitied him. He was so quiet, and he took whatever people threw at him with grace. I liked that about him. In second year, we started a friendship. It grew in third year.

"And before the Quidditch match in fourth year, I hugged him. And I swear, my heart was beating at a mile a minute and, oh Merlin, I knew he was the one_._" She paused. "Feel free to laugh at me if you want."

After a moment of silence, she continued, "after we won the match, I was heading up to the Gryffindor Common Room... and there he was, with some other girl, and they were snogging. Mind you, it wasn't just snogging.

"They were eating each other's faces, and Merlin, like their lives depended on it, too. And when I felt my heart break, it just proved my previous theory_. _You know, that we were meant to be together or some mental thing like that."

The boy feels his stomach lurch. _She loved me. She knew that I was the one. _

"But he blew you off, Rose. That wanker, he's always been so stupid... always parading some other girl around... _Scorpius doesn't deserve you. _In fact, no one really does. You're too good for everyone here." The boy mentally agrees. But then, there is absolute silence for a moment, and he fears that he has been discovered.

"That was the first time you called me by my first name. By Rose."

The masculine voice chuckles. "Yes, I suppose it is, isn't it?"

The boy doesn't have a good feeling about this. Still hidden by shelves, wants to call out to Rose, to tell her to get away from the mysterious character, that anything could happen to her, because she was too bloody _trusting _for her own good. But, as he sits silently, ready to hear more about how she fell in love, he swears that the silence has stretched out for too long. Cautiously, ever so cautiously, his head turns around the corner... and he can no longer think.

Because he recognizes the raven-blue head of Seth Teivel, bent over Rose's head of flames.

Because he sees that filthy bloke's hands coming down on Rose's shoulders.

Because he knows what's going to happen.

Because he has always been expecting it.

Seth Teivel, the bully, the friend, the traitor, is snogging Rose Weasley.

_And, dear Lord, it's not the type of snogging I do, _the boy thinks, _it's not full of lust or want or traitorous intentions. _His heart breaks as he sees Rose's shocked expression turn relaxed. _It's real. Oh Merlin, it's so real. _

_I'm too late._

He's sixteen-years-old and knows that the one he will always need is the one who will always be out of reach.

* * *

><p>He's seventeen-years-old and punching Seth Teivel squarely on the nose. He's losing his mind, and with every punch and every hit, he channels all his anger and hate that he'd been storing up for twelve years.<p>

"HOW DARE YOU?" He yells, aiming at Seth's left eye. "HOW COULD YOU?" Seth squirms and tries to get out of the other boy's grasp, but he's caught tightly under the other boy's weight. The boy yells again.

"YOU HAD EVERYTHING! _EVERYTHING_! A family with a good reputation, great mates, and..." he drifts off, the pain stabbing his heart again, "YOU HAD A SMART, KIND, BEAUTIFUL GIRLFRIEND WHO _TRUSTED _YOU!" With every word, the boy bashes out at Seth, hitting him across the jaw. And then, he's being pulled off, and he doesn't want to be, he wants to keep smacking that stupid boy-

Suddenly, everyone is looking at someone behind him. He freezes, because he can recognize that presence anywhere, because he doesn't have to look up to see who it is (he can already tell), because he can hear the nervous whispers and muffled voices.

"_Splendid_ job, Scorpius."

Rose Weasley.

He turns, ever so cautiously, and there she is, in all her Rose-Weasley-ish glory. Tall frame, long, uncontrollable tendrils of flaming hair, and chocolate-brown eyes. His breath catches (_when does it not?_), his face turns red (_always, always_), and his heart starts beating a mile a minute (_she's extraordinary_). And suddenly he's groping for something to say, something to respond with, but he sees her smile (the one he hasn't seen since fourth year) and his whole body relaxes. And it's like they're best friends again.

"Thanks, Rose."

"Of course."

He knows that she can fend for herself, and he gestures questioningly towards Seth (the slimy git is still lying on the floor).

"Don't worry. I can take care of it," she responds. And in an instant, her wand is out, and it's aimed straight at Seth. He admires her nerve (this may cost her her Head Girl badge), and watches dreamily as she aims a string of curses at Seth's head.

"I trusted you." As soon as Rose's voice goes quiet, he knows she's mad. She's unique that way, he supposes; when she gets angry, she gets quiet, which is much worse than getting loud.

"I trusted you," she softly says again, but coldly and calculating. "I thought you could help me forget about him," she gestures towards the boy, "and I have to admit, it worked for a while. You were kind, you were understanding, you were patient. But I'm smart enough to see through your facade.

"When I wanted a shoulder to cry on, you gave me a shoulder that shrugged. When I wanted someone to talk to, you gave me someone to snog. When I wanted someone to understand me, you gave me someone who didn't.

"You only wanted one thing. The entire time, you only wanted _that one thing. _It makes me sick, just thinking about it. _You _make me sick. Down to my stomach." Seth stares up at her through blackened eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says, looking downwards. The boy feels a burst of rage.

"I'M SORRY?" He yells. "I'M SORRY? IS THAT THE BEST YOU CAN DO AFTER TRYING TO TAKE ADVANTAGE OF HER?" He's almost on Seth again, but he feels a small hand on his chest. He looks down. Rose smiles up at him.

"That'll do, Scorpius." He relaxes, and all he can think about is that small hand on his chest, that soft, soft voice in his ear, those beautiful eyes that are now staring up at him...

"MISTER TEIVEL!" A harsh, leathery voice comes out from nowhere. The boy turns just in time to see Professor McGonagall bending down next to Seth. "Mister Teivel! What in the world has come to pass?"

The boy can see a flit of a smile across Seth's face, before he says, "it was Rose, Professor. She went mental and cruciated me."

All is silent for a moment.

"Miss Weasley?" McGonagall's voice is surprised and shocked, and the boy just stands there, frozen, unable to do anything, anything but gape. The old Headmistress is bent over the traitor's frame, asking him to recount the tale.

_ Seth Teivel, you monster, _the boy seethes, _you'll cost Rose her Head Girl Badge. _He turns to Rose then, but her face is an unreadable mask, staring blankly at the boy she used to trust.

_I hate you, _he thinks at the boy. _I HATE you. _

"A word, Miss Weasley, once I return." Everyone freezes, knowing what news will come next. _Your days at Hogwarts are over. _But what comes from the Headmistress's mouth is worse. Much, much worse_._

"If all he says is true, I'm afraid that Azkaban will be your final destination."

Suddenly the world stops.

And then a voice, seemingly out of nowhere, speaks up.

"It wasn't her fault." Everyone's heads snap up. So does the boy's. They all look for the source of the sound. "It wasn't her fault." Everyone has zeroed in on the person who speaks. The boy is still craning his neck to find that person. "It wasn't her fault." It's said three times before the boy realizes it. He's the one that's talking. He's the one that's in control. For the first time in his life, he's the one that is speaking out.

He has waited seventeen years for this.

Seventeen years.

"Leave Rose out of this, Professor McGonagall," he says, his voice demanding. It's a talent he's picked up from his father. "She hasn't done anything." _That the bloke doesn't deserve, _he adds mentally. He summons up all his courage. "It was my fault."

Everyone gasps. McGonagall looks at him hard, her gaze flitting from the boy to Rose. Then she opens her crinkly mouth to speak.

"I understand your desire to defend this girl, Mister Malfoy, but-"

"He tried to take advantage of her. In the Heads' dorm!"

"What poppycock, Mister Malfoy! Assumptions like that are _not _tolerated here-"

"What do you know of it? If it is an assumption, or a fact?"

"How _dare _you speak to me that way, Mister Malfoy? And make assumptions about Mister Teivel? Fifty points from Gryffindor-"

"She has bruises. All over. She has bruises to prove what he did to her."

Silence fills the room.

Silence.

Silence.

Sound.

"Miss Weasley..." the Headmistress has finally caught on. "Is this..." her voice catches in her throat. "Is this true?" The boy turns to Rose again. Her eyes drill into thin air. The teacher looks on, and when she speaks, her words are as soft as butterfly wings. "Is this true?"

Rose says nothing. She just reaches up to the collar of her shirt, and pulls down gently.

Bruises the size of snitches color her throat, like a necklace of blue and black and pain.

The boy is seeing all sorts of red. He didn't expect it to be this bad. He lunges towards Teivel again.

"YOU SICK-"

"STOP!" Rose stands in front of Seth, guarding him from the boy.

"Rose, what are you doing?" He asks. "You can't just let him-" She smiles up at him, the words he was about to say die in his throat.

"Professor McGonagall will take care of it." She turns to the old woman. "Right, Professor?" The old woman looks at Rose with concern.

"Miss Weasley, are you certain that a trip to the infirmary is not necessary-"

"Believe me Professor," Rose says, grabbing the boy's hand, "Scorp and I have _a lot _to catching up to do."

The girl and the boy sit across from each other in the secluded corner of the library, surrounded by piles upon piles of books. They sit cross-legged, their knees and fingertips touching, whilst informing each other of the misery endured in the past three years.

They speak of the bad times, but the good ones too, and of the times when one had wished that the other could have been there. The girl recounts to him how, two years ago in this very spot, she had told Seth Teivel about her feelings for the boy; and the boy answers, "I know". She looks at him in surprise, but he smiles and laces her fingers with his.

This moment was sickeningly sweet, but its tenderness brought the two closer together. They did not need to smile to show their happiness. They did not need to hug to show their friendship. And they most certainly did not need to kiss to show their love.

Sometimes, silence is the most powerful message.

He's seventeen-years-old and enjoying every moment he spends with Rose Weasley.

* * *

><p>Please review! I've decided to continue this story. The second chapter will be up soon.<p> 


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